


Sunlight, Sheets

by genee



Category: Music RPF, Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-02-25
Updated: 2009-02-25
Packaged: 2017-10-19 23:29:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/206389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genee/pseuds/genee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Ronon didn't know what grits were but he wanted to try them anyway, thought they might just taste like home.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunlight, Sheets

**Author's Note:**

  * For [meredevachon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/meredevachon/gifts).



> another ficlet for the "invent a relationship" meme.

Earth was a strange world, Ronon knew that already, but Atlantis was his home and Ronon wasn't leaving this planet without his city, he just wasn't. He wasn't leaving without his people either, but he figured that pretty much went without saying, and if not everyone here understood that, well, Ronon didn't much care. Like Sheppard said, fuck 'em. Sheppard got it, and Ronon knew that was what mattered.

Sheppard got a lot of things about Ronon, and Ronon got a lot of things about Sheppard, and that was just one of the reasons they liked to disappear like this, one night, maybe two, some hole in the wall bar and a bottle of Jack, the herb Sheppard bought for Ronon but never used himself, clingy smoke, sweet papers, some guy singing on the stage in the corner, another guy beside him, beat up boots, a shiny guitar.

Ronon said, "John," and Sheppard turned toward him, grinning. He'd had his eyes on the girl behind the bar all night, and she'd been watching him, too, soft curves and a softer smile and Ronon knew better than to think Sheppard was going anywhere but home with her, bottle almost empty and John's eyes still bright. "John," he said again. "Go."

One day John was a Lantean and the next day he wasn't, and Ronon wasn't sure what that meant but he knew it meant something. One day Ronon was Satedean and the next day Sateda was no more, but he knew it wasn't the same thing. Ronon was who he was; Sheppard was whoever he wanted to be.

John's fingers curled around Ronon's wrist for just a second, warm slide of calloused skin, an entirely different grin. Behind him the singer leaned into the microphone, said, "This song's about where I'm from," and John turned away from Ronon then, eased up to the bar, the girl, her pretty laugh, soft sheets and morning sun in her hair. Ronon didn't have to try too hard to picture them together. He just smiled to himself, though, licked his lips, listened as the song unfolded, familiar and strange, the singer's eyes meeting his, his voice gravelly, open, like he was singing right to Ronon even though he couldn't have been, didn't know anything about Ronon or where he grew up or that Sateda ever even existed. 

He didn't want to think about that, though, finished the whiskey in his glass, slipped out for a smoke without a backward glance, John, the girl, the singer. He rolled himself a smoke in the cool night air, sooty smell of this city, traffic, trash, the joint pinched between his fingers, slow green buzz. He closed his eyes for a minute, opened them when the door clicked in the quiet, the singer outlined in the light, smaller than he looked up on stage, solid, though, sure. Ronon passed him the joint, watched the easy way he inhaled, the easy way he smiled. He had lines around his eyes same as Sheppard.

The singer said, "Had you and your friend figured for military, but I guess not, huh?" and Ronon shrugged, watched the way his lips moved around his words, tongue darting out quick, shiny. "I'm Chris," he said, and Ronon tried not to stare at the way Chris's cock pressed against the front of his jeans. "Christian. Chris."

"Ronon," Ronon said, breathing in the scent of him, dark, hot. "You sounded good in there. I haven't heard a lot of music like that."

"That so?" Chris raised an eyebrow, pressed the stub of the joint into Ronon's fingers. It had a name, but Ronon couldn't think of it right now, Chris so close Ronon could feel the heat of him, could have wrapped his hand around the back of Chris's neck and tilted his head up, kissed him without hardly having to move. Instead, Ronon just raised an eyebrow of his own, and Chris said, "So, what do you do for fun, Ronon, not-a-soldier, haven't-heard-much-country-music?"

"Fight, mostly," Ronon said, and Chris's muscles flexed in response, grin spreading across his face like he knew just what Ronon meant. Ronon thought about the way Chris's cock would feel in his mouth, thick, heavy, decided he could take Chris and whatever friends he had inside if he'd read this wrong, and reached for Chris's belt buckle, tugged. "Like to fuck, too, when I get the chance."

"Fightin' and fuckin'," Chris said, Ronon's fingers working at his fly, dick popping out easily, hard already, wet right at the tip. "Those're two of my favorite things," breathy now, Ronon on his knees, taste of sweat and cock and Chris's voice gone dark, "Fuck, fuck," and then Ronon lost track of his words, could only follow the thick vein running up the underside of Chris's dick, pulsing against his tongue. Chris wrapped his hands into Ronon's dreads and pulled just right, and Ronon looked up as best he could, mouth stretched wide. Chris said, "God _damn_ , fuck, really shouldn't be doin' this here."

But Ronon was doing this here, hands splayed on Chris's hips, digging into his ass, pulling him close, closer, tongue flicking against Chris's slit and sucking along the bare length, smell of him everywhere. He'd missed this, sucking cock, the feel of it, the sounds; he wanted to make it last, wanted it to be over quick just so he could do it again. Chris pulled back a little and Ronon moaned, hot spurt of come in his mouth and Chris thrusting hard, shooting the rest down Ronon's throat. Ronon stayed right there for a minute, maybe two, soft weight of Chris's cock in his mouth, eyes closed, breathing hard, Chris's muscles shaking still, his skin damp, sticky.

He stood when Chris tugged at his hair, though, waved Chris's hand away when he reached for Ronon's fly. Chris just smiled, slow, lazy, thumbed the head of Ronon's dick, rubbed the foreskin over the ridge, down and back up again, dick trapped against his belly, leaking, making a dark spot on his shirt. "You comin' home with me, Ronon? Gonna let me fuck you? Play country music for you, make you breakfast in the mornin'?"

Ronon nodded, threaded his fingers through Chris's sweaty hair, kissed him like he'd wanted to earlier. He couldn't picture Chris with sunlight on his skin, didn't know how his sheets would feel, didn't care about any of that, either, only wanted what Chris was offering, wanted Chris to fuck him hard, wanted Chris above him, inside him, heavy and solid and making him shake apart, making him feel it, making this _his_ , some piece of this new city where Atlantis was and also wasn't, this world that wasn't his, that still didn't quite fit.

Ronon tilted Chris's head a little more and Chris laughed softly, warm rush of breath in Ronon's mouth, alive, achy. Ronon thought Chris could have been a runner on another world, might be a runner right here, different demons, no less deadly, but he went home with Chris anyway, despite that or maybe because of it, Ronon wasn't sure. Sheppard said Ronon could afford to be selfish now, could have the things he wanted, and Ronon wanted this, wanted breakfast, wanted Chris.

  

\--End--


End file.
